


Obeisance

by thedevilchicken



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Clothed Sex, Come Eating, Come Shot, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Licking, Obedience, Padmé's Elaborate Clothes, Political Alliances, Ritual Sex, Royalty, Throne Sex, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Padmé Amidala has been crowned Queen of Naboo. Her emissary to the Galactic Senate comes home to make his first devotion.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Sheev Palpatine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	Obeisance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigo_inks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/gifts).



She stands there in the throne room in a dress it took three people thirty minutes to put her into properly. She stands there and she asks him: "Did you do this?"

Her face is painted white, as is traditional, and the velvet of the dress is heavy, with a gold brocade in it that shines with the sunlight that filters through the room's high windows. Her sleeves are long - so long her hands are barely visible beneath them, but the white gloves make her fingertips look hard as porcelain. She's wearing stiff leather boots, knee-high, that fasten down the outer edge with loops that pull tight over buttons, and the headpiece has a weight to it that requires a support all of its own. It runs down the back of her neck to the base of her spine, secured inside her corset, and it keeps her almost as still as a statue.

She knows how she looks: both regal and like a painted doll for men to play with. She wonders if he'd dare. She wonders if that's not precisely what he intended. 

"How could I, your majesty?" he asks, with a deferential smile, but he's a politician who's been away from home too long. She knows what the Galactic Senate is and as much as she admires its goals, as much as she has hopes that those goals will be aligned with hers as Naboo's new queen, she knows better than to trust instead of verify. 

"I suspect you have your ways, Senator Palpatine," she says, and his deferential smile sharpens just for the briefest fraction of a moment. She sees it, though, even if she's not sure yet what it means: maybe he did do this. Maybe he put her on this throne, like he promised to once when she was younger. 

She didn't think he meant it at the time, of course; when her class visited the Senate, when he asked her about her ambitions, she told him, _I want to hold office,_ and she remembers how he smiled. He seemed so pleasant. He seemed not quite fatherly but avuncular when he leaned forward on his desk and said, almost conspiratorially, _I'll make you queen one day, Miss Naberrie_.

Now here she is, Queen of Naboo in all her finery. Now here he is, her senator, come to pay his respects. And she knows what tradition expects of of her, of him, of _them_ , years of ceremonies coming down to this. 

"Continue," she says, and underneath the paint she knows her cheeks are blushing. Underneath her clothes she knows her chest feels tight. 

He nods. He smiles that smile, then he approaches. And, when she bends her knees to perch at the throne's edge - a skill she's had to practice frequently with these clothes she wears, he goes down onto his knees in front of her. When she rests her gloved hands on the thrones wide arms, his fingers find the thick low hem and he eases the heavy velvet up. She knows what he'll find underneath.

He gathers the dress's long skirt at her waist. Beneath it, she's bare. She sat at the edge of her bathtub that morning and looked away as a handmaiden shaved her; now he runs his thumbs over her smooth mound and she understands that that's her cue to spread her knees. She does so, carefully, so she won't teeter, and feels her lips part just a little with how wide her knees are parted. He parts them further, just a little, until her hips almost start to ache, and she looks down at him between her thighs, at his hands against her skin, at his face so close to her that she feels the heat of his breath against her lips. 

He licks her, a long swipe of his tongue at the length of her so slightly parted slit. He uses his thumbs next and opens her wider, then he licks her there again. She feels his breath against her, intimate and humid, like a kiss he can't press to her face. She feels his thumbs slip lower, and she's so close to the throne's hard edge against her dress that when he shifts them apart again he's opening her cunt, not just her lips. 

She throbs. She feels his lips around her clitoris, and she throbs almost in time with how he sucks her there. She feels his thumbs stroke at her entrance, at the inner lips she's sometimes seen in the mirror when she's tried to match herself to images in books. She always used to wonder if what she has is right, normal, maybe even pretty, if men would find her pleasing, and while she knows she's right, and normal, she finds she wonders again right now if _pretty_ is a word he'd use. 

He sucks her. The tip of his tongue flickers against her, teasing, tantalizing, until her heart races in her chest and her thighs start to feel weak. She grips at the throne, and her breath comes quickly, through her mouth, lips parted, matching what's below. He sucks her and she _hears_ it, wet sounds, not like she imagined, making her tingle, making her wet, so wet she's sure she's soaking through the fabric of her dress. And he must feel it, she thinks, with his thumbs that are still stroking her around the place that wetness is; they feel slick with it, slippery, and then his tongue dips down lower. He makes a sound in his throat, low, perhaps aroused, as he tastes her. And she'd like to bite her lip but with the way she's painted there, she knows she can't. 

He laps at her cunt. The flat of his tongue moves against it, against her lips, dipping between them, his face pressed to her mound so tightly that she's not sure how he can breathe. He laps at her, hot and wet, and her thighs begin to tremble, and she wonders if it's supposed to be like this. The notes she was handed by her predecessor, personal notes to be read only by the queen, were vague except to say their senator kneel between her thighs to express oral appreciation of her new appointment. She supposes he does seem appreciative. 

He laps at her cunt, his thumbs still holding her inner lips apart, and she's so hot and wet down there that it's like nothing she's quite felt before. She can hear her own breath, too loud, hitching. She can feel his tongue, his hands on her, and then he slips his mouth back to her clitoris and gives a long, hard suck. She moans out loud; she can't keep herself from doing it. And then, as she's doing it, he slips one thick finger into her. Her moan hitches. Her cunt pulls tight around his finger and she squeezes, she can't help it, she's utterly helpless. He's still sucking her as he moves his hand, as he fucks her with his forefinger, slowly, deeply, straight and firm. 

He adds a second finger. She feels herself stretch tight but she's so wet that pushing in is easy and she wonders, distantly, like when she was younger, if fingers in her cunt mean she's not a virgin anymore. She used to try it on her own, but it was never like this and all she can do is clutch the throne and breathe and _feel_ as he fucks her with his hand. 

And, when she comes, it's sudden and sharp and like stars explode inside her. Her hips buck against his hand, against his mouth, and he lets her do it, lets her smother him with her bare-shaved mound, until she's trembling and spent. Then he removes his fingers, slowly; he sucks them and she watches, trying not to be wide-eyed. He leans back in and licks her clean. And then he stands. 

She understands what comes next, from the queen's notes she's read so many times since her coronation, at her desk in her study and at night in bed. He stands and he unfastens his trousers and she watches him ease out his cock. He's hard already, long and thick and flushed a deep red-pink, with moisture gathered at the tip that she almost thinks she'd like to taste. And he strokes himself in front of her, standing on the steps before the throne. He strokes himself firmly, root to tip, still fully clothed, and it doesn't take him long - she wonders if that's just how it is for men or if that's what she's done to him. 

When he comes, he comes in a hot, wet splash between her thighs, against her mound, painting her with his semen like her face is painted white. She feels it on her, as slick as she is herself but thicker. She feels it seep between her lips, toward her aching cunt. She feels it drip onto her skirt as he tucks his softening cock away. Then he kneels again and he licks it away, licks away his come and hers until she's perfectly clean again down there, and then he eases down her skirt. He backs away. Unsteadily, she rises. 

"Your dedication to the throne is noted, Senator," she says, and she finds her voice is surprisingly steady. 

"I remain at your command, your majesty," he replies, and she wishes she could tell if the smile on his flushed face means that's true or false. 

He takes his leave and she sits again, perched on the edge of the throne. She's still shaky. Between her thighs, there's a pleasant ache, but there are other duties she must do. She can't pay that much attention now, even when they take the dress to clean it. There are meetings to attend, audiences, decisions she must make. It will take up almost all the time she has. 

But the next time the senator returns to Naboo, she knows she'll wear another dress. The next time he returns, he will be required to make obeisance in another way. He's obliged to bend her down over the throne and thrust his cock inside her, to show his loyalty to his queen in that most physical of ways. By taking her virginity, he's meant to show her what it is to be her servant in all things.

He'll be back inside a year. A year feels like too long because even if she can't decide if she can trust him, she think she can trust him to do that. 

And perhaps he made her queen. Perhaps he knows the right people and greased the right palms. But the fact is he's hers and not the other way around; what she has to do is make sure he remembers that.


End file.
